


Little Black Book

by MissLouisa



Series: the inside of my head is a very dark place [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Lestrade is an ass, PTSD ?, Self Harm, dark!john, really really angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissLouisa/pseuds/MissLouisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of a drugs bust, Lestrade & co find something less than savoury in the flat.<br/>Only thing is?<br/>It's not Sherlock's, and that changes everything.<br/>They will never treat John the same again. </p><p>From a prompt from the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was withholding evidence again, going around thinking he was all superior. Anderson and Donovan volunteered for the 'drugs bust', eager to take him down a peg. _Again._

They weren't expecting Sherlock and John to be out, but once they were in 221B they thought they might as well get what they came for.

"What d'you reckon this is, sir?" Asked Donovan, holding out a small black book. "Sherlock's list of conquests?" She smirked.

Lestrade frowned. "Dunno, have a look. Might have something useful in it."

Donovan scanned the first page, her easy smile quickly vanishing from her face - along with all colour that had previously been in it. Anderson leaned over her shoulder, all thoughts of destroying Sherlock's kitchen forgotten.

"Jesus christ." He said. In spiky, scrawled handwriting - maybe written with anger, but that could be conjecture from the content - was a graphically described scene.

 _It would be at night_ the book stated _and I would make use of Mycroft's habit of appearing out of nowhere. A black car - rented, possibly stolen - would glide beside her. Anthea. She would get in, too busy tapping on that damned blackberry to notice that this was not the usual mode of transport.  
I would be waiting.  
I would pull a gun. But I don't want to use the gun. Anthea deserves more than that.  
A serrated, 6 inch knife. Held to her throat, to her stomach, to her chest, carving dancing patterns. She would die slowly, gasping, begging for anybody to help her.  
Nobody would come. _

There were pages depicting murder after murder, name after name.

"Sherlock's finally cracked." Said Donovan, striving for normality, but her voice was shaky as she passed the book to Lestrade, his previous amusement quickly vanishing.

Lestrade sat down and read it, the whole way through, flinching when he got to the page with his name on it.

"This isn't Sherlock's." He said, eventually.

Anderson snorted. "Who else would be capable of having thoughts like that?"

"As far as I know, Sherlock has never met Harry Watson." Said Lestrade, flatly.

Donovan's jaw dropped, in tandem with the door slamming shut. Loud voices echoed up the stairs. "You can't just run off whenever you feel like it, Sherlock. You have to tell me exactly which warehouse houses the people trying to kill us."

"We're still alive, John."

As they reached the top of the stairs, they came to a stop.

"Drugs bust." Called Lestrade, trying for nonchalant, and missing.

John had spotted the book. Sherlock was scowling, for once, oblivious.

"I wasn't withholding evidence, you were just much too far behind."

"Sherlock." said John, warningly.

"What?"

"Care to explain, John?" Butted in Lestrade.

John swallowed. "It was.. it was a therapy thing." He flinched. Sherlock caught up. Rapidly.

"Sherlock's not in here, I notice. Collaborate, did you?"

"Actually, it's all mine." Sherlock said, drily. John looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"You don't have to..." he trailed off.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. It would've been touching, if the whole situation hadn't been utterly disturbing.

"I'd recognise your handwriting anywhere, Sherlock. And besides, you don't know Harry Watson, do you?"

"You read it... you read the whole thing."

John sounded choked, terrified.

Lestrade inclined his head. "I particularly liked how it's organized alphabetically."

"I'm so, so sorry. I never meant for..." He glanced up, into the hard eyes of Donovan and Anderson.

"Shit." He said, eventually.

"We're going to have to conviscate this. In case you ever do decide to kill one of us."

John flinched, again. "You know I wouldn't, Greg."

"Do I?"

John gulped. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"You wanted to..." Lestrade glanced down. "Slit my throat and watch me bleed, watch the light die in my eyes, was it?"

John shook his head. "You have to know I was in a bad place when I wrote that. I never intended for anyone to read it."

Sherlock, having remained silent for this whole exchange, spoke up. "John regularly saves lives. You should trust him."

"Shut up, Sherlock." Lestrade said. "Your death isn't written out in detail."

"That's because I told him how I'd kill him." John said.

Lestrade was silent, for once.

"Would you like to hear?"

"Christ no!" Anderson said, brought back to reality by the thought of hearing the words from the man himself. "You're sick."

Donovan nodded. "I thought Sherlock was the psycho. Now I know who I won't be letting near crime scenes."

John's shoulders went limp. He felt so tired. This was it, all his friends, gone. All except Sherlock, and even he would lose interest if John wasn't allowed on cases.

"I've half a mind to submit a report." Lestrade said.

John gaped. "I'll lose my job. Please. Christ, you have to know I'd never harm anyone. It was just... it was things I had to get out of my head."

"They shouldn't have been in your head in the first place."

"Are you really going to blame a soldier with PTSD for having less than healthy thoughts?" Sherlock was suddenly defensive, protective of John.

"PTSD or no, he shouldn't _fantasise_ about murdering his _friends_. Much less plan it in detail."

"Would you like to know about my other detailed plans, Lestrade?" John snapped. No more familiarity, just fury. "You broke into our flat, you read my private thoughts and you decide that this is a problem with you, not a problem with me. I am _aware_ that it is not healthy, thank you very much. I am aware that most people do not think like this but it is really none of your business. My other detailed plans involve my own demise. Does that make you feel better? Is that a slightly more normal kind of PTSD? Do you feel better now?" he snarled.

It was Lestrade's turn to flinch.

"I think we're done here." He said, pocketing the book. "Sherlock, I hope you'll pass on the information with the case when you're done with it."

He paused.

"Don't bring John."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows he deserves this.  
> Sherlock, however, doesn't.

"You should take the camera back to Lestrade." John said, as he flicked the kettle on. Sherlock, clearly having not slept at all, was posed (there really was no other word for it) on the sofa.

"Why?" He said.

"He has a serial killer to catch." 

"Oh, that. Doesn't it bother you that you can't help?"

John just looked at him. 

"I can't read minds, John."

"Lestrade's doing the right thing." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You have this insipid need to see the best in everyone. It's tiresome."

"You should take the camera back." 

Sherlock stood up. "I take it you're taking Lestrade's words to heart, then." 

John nodded. Truthfully, he wanted Sherlock out of the flat. He needed privacy and he was starting to feel achingly claustrophobic in his own home.

How long would it be before Sherlock tired of him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small intermediary chapter. Next one coming later today.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a camera on Lestrade's desk, neatly sealed into an evidence bag. Sherlock was nowhere in sight, and Lestrade had a stack of paperwork to fill. 

Sherlock was, arguably, invaluable to Scotland Yard, but he didn't half cause problems when he couldn't be arsed to explain why the man he'd restrained was responsible for seven deaths. That, and he'd disappeared - nobody had seen him deliver the camera (or the criminal, for that matter) and Lestrade was pretty sure he was sulking.

It was that damn thing with John. He couldn't allow someone like that near a crime scene. Jesus. What if somebody said something stupid, and set him off? Sent him into a flashback, or a homicidal rage? 

Lestrade wasn't stupid, he knew he was fooling himself. The whole thing had been downright disturbing and just a glimpse into John's head had been more than enough. He'd never seen the inside of a killer's head dissected in the same way - sure, he'd interviewed some really nasty ones, but that was after the fact, and killing, real killing, changed people. Technically John already was a killer, but up close and personal, face to face.

He was pretty sure that wasn't in John's job description. And you had to hold these things in check. Living with Sherlock had undoubtably given John access to all kind of materials ideal for inflicting most of the damage descripted in that damnable book, and retaining his access to Scotland Yard? It was asking for trouble. And Lestrade did not want to take the fall for that one - nor did he want to be near John for the foreseeable future. 

Keep the crazy bastard away. It made sense, it was the only logical answer to the position that John (and Anderson and Donovan) had put him in.

Sherlock appeared - literally - in Lestrade's doorway. 

"There should be enough evidence on the camera to convict him. He was disappointingly stupid," said Sherlock, with barely a nod at the camera.

"Right. Thanks." 

Sherlock's face was studiously blank - none of the usual beaming excitement of a case just solved, no signs of any adrenaline rush from apprehending the poor sod (he really shouldn't think that way about murderers, but it had been a long day and he'd seen the state of the guy when he was brought in). 

"There's another case - a cold one, up until about two days ago."

"No."

Lestrade spluttered. This was new. "No? You're turning down a case?"

"John has become an integral part of my work and I will not be able to continue in this manner. I only solved the last one because I loathe loose ends."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You're having a tantrum because your sick, murderous friend isn't allowed near a crime scene."

Sherlock assessed his words.

"I'm having a _tantrum_ because a previously respectable DI is taking offense to an exercise set by a therapist for a PTSD sufferer, and this is affecting my work. Sick and murderous doesn't even enter into it."

"Really. He's a poor, frail PTSD sufferer who needs all the access to crime scenes he can get? Christ, what if it causes a flashback or triggers some kind of inner desire?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't pretend you're protecting him. And even if you are, I will be around to calm him down?"

"Adept at that, are you?"

Sherlock levelled a gaze at him. "Yes."

"No. He's not coming anywhere near Scotland Yard, or a crime scene, and if I so much as catch a glimpse of him hanging around outside there will be hell to pay, understand?"

"It will take two serial killers before you give in."

"Give in?"

"Really, Lestrade, you are exceptionally slow today. I won't work on a case until you stop being afraid of John."

"You won't last two days without a case."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "John is a human being who is perfectly capable of controlling his actions. Until you understand that, Scotland Yard will function without my help. Or fail to function. It depends on levels of crime - speaking of which, best not to let out that I'm not helping you out any more, I'm sure there will be an influx of stupid crimes."

"John is sick. He needs to be put away where he can't hurt anybody." Lestrade spat. There was no way he was going to concede to Sherlock's - frankly, appalling - reasoning. "I suggest you look into finding a new flatmate, I'm sure brother dear won't want you living with a homicidal maniac."

Sherlock's mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. "Working with me has helped John. Working with John has helped me. Mycroft can understand that - apparently even he has more emotional depth than you." The _you bastard_ went unsaid. Sherlock did not like to sink to swearing. 

Lestrade was not used to seeing Sherlock riled up - irritated, yes, that was a near daily occurrence - but this was astonishing. If Lestrade had a little less self respect he might well be shrinking in his seat, but no. He would not let Sherlock shout his way into letting a psycho (and the more Lestrade thought about it the more he was convinced that was what John was) into the building. Into anywhere other than the cells. 

"Your ridiculous insistence on this has been more damaging to John than anything he has seen at a crime scene so far. He thinks you're doing the right thing, Lestrade."

"The only person that doesn't, then, is you."

"You are driving a relatively sane, completely harmless man into the arms of his own demons. He may not last out the year and I hope you realise that sooner, rather than later."

Sherlock was aware that John may not like having this in the public arena, but guilt was his last resort. He hadn't expected Lestrade to fail to see reason quite so spectacularly. 

"I promise I won't say I told you so when John's incarcerated," spat Lestrade. He was tired of this, furious at Sherlock for even putting him into this situation. Sherlock _knew_ and did nothing to make anybody aware of the danger they were in, simply by associating with John Watson. His girlfriend - christ, his girlfriend probably had no idea.

"Even if he does kill, you'll never catch him." Sherlock said, coolly. 

"No?"

"You won't have me." Sherlock smiled, and turned and left. 

_Shit,_ Was Lestrade's only thought as he turned back to his paperwork. He would be able to wait it out, for Sherlock to see reason. Though who knew how many killers would evade capture before that happened.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about this one, it sort of got away from me a bit. I decided to play with POV a bit more, although the inside of Sherlock's head is remarkably normal, but yes.  
> This chapter is incredibly angsty. LIke, really, really awfully angsty. 
> 
> Trigger Warning: Self Harm.

John's door was locked when Sherlock got home, but that didn't stop him from striding up the stairs and picking it.

He didn't bother to knock, he had enough - unsavoury - ideas of what John could be doing behind closed doors. Of what John should not be doing, ever. 

Not to mention he could smell - cigarette smoke?

How had he missed this?

*

John did not smoke often. In fact, since returning to civilian life, he hadn't smoked at all. It was only in times of high stress, after a long day of being shot at and not saving enough people, that he found comfort in nicotine.

There were other reasons, too, but he didn't like to talk about them. 

It hadn't been difficult to find Sherlock's stash - he had been surprisingly predictable in his hiding places (perhaps surmising that John would expect the unusual) - but he couldn't find a lighter anywhere.

He settled for a match, stubbing it out in the rescued ashtray (he'd had to rinse it out, who knew what was lurking in it's depths) before puffing on the cigarette.

It made him choke, a little - it had been a while - but he didn't cough. He blew out, smoke dancing in front of him, hoping Sherlock wouldn't be home soon. 

The bitter taste in his mouth was soothing, comforting. Even if it reminded him of sunny places that shouldn't be so dark. Of bloodstained sand and lives he couldn't save.

John shivered. 

He tapped the end of the cigarette on the ashtray, dislodging the ash that had collected there. He stared, watching the cigarette burn down to the filter.

He put it down, just for a moment, to bare his wrist. 

It took two, three presses to stub out the cigarette on his arm.

Funny, he thought, admiring the marks. _I don't feel a thing._

That was when Sherlock walked in.

"I suppose you haven't thought about respecting my privacy," John said, flatly.

Sherlock swallowed.

"You smoke?"

John stared dully into space, before responding. "That's not the question you want to ask."

"We should run that under cold water. It's going to scar." Sherlock said. 

"I'm the doctor here, Sherlock." He half-laughed, a sharp sound that wasn't right in the bland middle of the day.

"You're... distracted."

"I'm unfit to do my job now, am I?"

Sherlock frowned. John was - different. He'd never been quite like this before - at least, not in front of Sherlock. 

"That's not what I meant."

Silence.

"John, look at me. John."

John blinked, twice, and then Sherlock snapped into focus.

_Ah, there was the pain._

"Are you okay?"

John grunted, pulling himself to standing. He'd been sat on the floor, leaning against the bed, and now his leg was playing up. "Water. You're right, I need water."

He pushed past Sherlock, into the bathroom, running his wrist under the cold tap, hoping desperately Sherlock wouldn't follow. 

This was - this was meant to stay private. It didn't happen often. Less often, even, than the smoking.

But today he'd just felt so useless, so ineffectual, so _pathetic_. He was waiting for Sherlock to grow tired of caring for his fucked up friend. Waiting for Sherlock to realise that John wasn't allowed to run after him any more. The realisation that John was useless to Sherlock, that solving crime could very easily go on without him, would come any day now.

In a sense, John was almost impatient for it.

Any day now, and he knew then that he wouldn't be missed.

*

Sherlock was considering calling Mycroft. This was a crisis, something Sherlock had never had to deal with before. Mycroft would know what to do, this was practically Mycroft's area, if the amount of times he'd picked Sherlock up from rock bottom was anything close to what Sherlock imagined it is (he didn't remember a lot of them, and Mycroft never brought it up).

He didn't, though. He may have been - somewhat limited - emotionally, but he was certainly aware enough of John to realise that getting other people involved would be not good. Possibly just flat out bad.

He knocked tentatively on the bathroom door. He hadn't followed immediately - John would need a moment (or more) to collect himself. People expected Sherlock to blithely ignore the fact that John was a real, human being, who needed love and care. Sherlock did, admittedly, occasionally treat John like he had no feelings whatsoever to hurt. But that did not mean Sherlock couldn't see when John was struggling, that he couldn't help.

Or that he couldn't try to help. Sherlock was entirely unaware of any etiquette in this situation (he usually ignored etiquette anyway, but this was _relevant_ ) so he was running blind. 

Which for Sherlock, was terrifying.

He pushed the door open after a suitable pause. John was staring at himself in the mirror, his face blank and oddly composed (John shouldn't wear a mask, it didn't suit him), his wrist under the tap. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Seeking refuge in platitudes. Must be a better way to start this conversation. "I mean. When's your next appointment with the therapist?"

"Wednesday." John wouldn't look at him.

"Are you going to tell her?"

"Do you think it will help?"

Sherlock paused.

"What triggered it?"

"I used to smoke on bad days. Weak crutch, I know. Brought back memories."

"Of bad days."

The only confirmation John gave was a slight tilt of the head.

"How's Lestrade?"

 _Subject change. Avoiding the topic. Well, I'll give him this one, at least,_ thought Sherlock.

"Still ignorant. Caught a killer, though."

"That's good news."

Sherlock paused. With John in his current state of mind, there was no telling how he'd react to Sherlock's refusal to take on more cases. 

"Well. He thought so."

John turned to look at Sherlock, the corners of his mouth flicking into a small smile. 

"I should go put some bio oil on these. To limit the scarring."

Sherlock nodded, and stood aside to let him pass. Things felt slightly more right, again. 

This was all Lestrade's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank you all for the feedback I've received so far, and ideas in the comments have been insanely useful in terms of plot developments, so please, I beg you, carry on.   
> I'd also like to ask how people feel about getting Moriarty involved (only in the vaguest sense of the word 'involved' - he won't actually appear, just his actions will) because I'm fearful of making this too much about Sherlock and not John.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, intermediary chapter again.

"You're afraid of me."

Sherlock looked up.

"You've been avoiding me for days. Don't deny it - ever since the whole thing with Lestrade, you've been weird." 

They hadn't spoken about the incident, and truthfully, Sherlock was uncomfortable. But he wasn't _afraid_ of John - the very idea was absurd.

"I'm not afraid of you, John." Sherlock's tone was sharp - he hadn't intended it that way, but couldn't John see?

Sherlock was worried. John should be honoured.

"Then why won't you talk to me?" John spat. 

Pause.

"I don't want to know if you've done _it_ again." Sherlock said. How he hated honesty.

"Oh."

There was a long pause, this time.

"I haven't. If that, um, helps."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Good."

"Tea?" John offered, and the tension evaporated. 

_Always knows the right thing to say,_ Sherlock mused.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade knocked three times before opening the door. 

Sherlock glanced up from his book - god only knew what he was reading that managed to keep his attention - "I said no cases, Lestrade."

"I'm not here for you." 

"No cases? What?" 

Sherlock bit his lip. "Yes, John. No cases."

"What, why?"

Sherlock gave him a look, like _why do you think?_ and John's expression of shock lasted up until Lestrade opened his mouth.

"I'm placing you under arrest, John."

For once, Sherlock was more surprised than John. John had seen this coming from the outset - the moment his dirty little secret was out, he'd been aware of the end result. He'd known that all it would take was one acquaintance the victim of an unfortunate crime, and a finger would be pointed at him.

And his life would be over. That hurt. 

"Who?" That was all he needed to ask.

"Harry. Your sister." Lestrade glared at John. "Your own fucking sister, John."

There was a choked sound from John's throat, and Sherlock shot Lestrade (yet another) dirty look.

"Is she - how bad was it?" John almost couldn't bear to ask, but he had to know. 

"She's in ICU. She's been mutilated, John." And there was loathing dripping from every syllable and Sherlock had to fight so, so hard not to stand up and punch Lestrade.

Because this was unnecessary and unprofessional and John was falling apart, couldn't Lestrade see?

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said quietly, because that's all he can offer.

"We need you down at the station, John, you're our only suspect."

"I expect the evidence is already pretty conclusive." John's voice had a bitter tone, resigned to his fate.

It was over, in John's head. 

"Fairly, yes." Lestrade, tight-lipped, and angry, couldn't help but feel a spark of pity for John. He'd clearly had uncontrollable urges - but christ, Lestrade felt so guilty.

What had happened to Harry Watson was Lestrade's fault - he could have prevented it, he could've had John put away before he could harm a soul. He could have protected her, and the knowledge made him sick to his stomach. The realisation that he could've done something only made him keener to _get this over with_.

As Lestrade spouted John's rights with self righteous fury, John could practically see the cogs turning in Sherlock's head. 

"John was with me." He said, eventually. Lestrade came to a sputtering halt.

"No, I wasn't," John intoned. "You don't even know when it happened."

"You haven't left the flat in days."

"That you know of."

John was apparently determined to dig his own grave, and Lestrade was only too glad to help.

"I want to see the scene." Sherlock demanded, leaping up from his seat.

"You said no cases."

"John _didn't_ do it, and you're entirely too blind to be able to find out who actually did."

"Sherlock, shut up." John was glaring mutinously at Sherlock. "Let Lestrade do his job. It'll just be better for everyone this way."

"You don't want to know who put your sister into intensive care, John?"

John didn't say anything.

Sherlock, abruptly recognising he'd reached a dead end (how odd), changed tack. "Lestrade, you shouldn't be working on the case. You're biased."

"No, I'm in possession of all of the facts. Moreso than any other DI."

Sherlock scowled. "You cannot use that notebook as evidence."

"Homicidal ideation, Sherlock, do you know how serious that is? He's high risk, we should've put him away before. I didn't think he'd actually hurt anybody."

"I didn't." John said. "Hurt anybody, that is."

Silence dominated the flat. Inwardly, Sherlock was thrilled - John was finally, actually saying something in his own defence. Lestrade had been hoping for a guilty plea - a mental health defense, because that would be easier on everyone.

Lestrade swallowed. If it got out that he'd had the notebook as evidence and not submitted it, not even considered charging John with intent, he'd be disciplined. Severely.

He wanted an easy trial, that was the beginning, the middle, and the end of it. An easy trial, with John put away for as long as possible.

The minimum amount of trauma for Sherlock, his other friends (did John have other friends? He had other acquaintances, the book was enough evidence of that, but friends?), his family - jesus, Harry was going to take that badly.

"Will Harry be able to testify?" Asked John. He's surprised by how hard it is to ignore his concern for her, he's seen friends shot before, he should be practised at this. But no, saying her name still hurt, because she might not be okay.

Sherlock winced. Witness testimony, especially a member of John's family, was a weak defense, especially if it was John's only one. Lestrade knew that, and it showed on his face.

"Of course. Do I need to cuff you, or will you come?"

John nodded. "I'll come."

"I'm coming to the station." Sherlock announced. 

John frowned. "Don't bother. Lestrade said, I'm high risk. There's nothing you can do now, Sherlock."

And it hurt to see John's face crumple a little bit as he left the flat, because this was not right. Sherlock had never been interested in justice before, it used to be about the puzzles, but this?

This wasn't fair.

(and that just reminded him of Mycroft, offering words he should know better than to share - "Life isn't fair, Sherlock" - "Caring is not an advantage." And oh, now he felt a little bit sick.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got plot! I'm not entirely happy with this chapter (I spent most of today tweaking it and thinking it over and I couldn't come to a more satisfying ending) but I'm hoping it'll move the plot onwards, which is important, because we are about to get knee deep into some angst.  
> Yeah, Lestrade is still an ass. But you get to see inside his head a bit, so, um, yay?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally _understands_ in the most patronizing way.  
>  And then she really does understand.

Sherlock paced up and down the corridors at Scotland Yard. In the back of his mind, he was dimly aware that the pacing was the reason Donovan was hovering, and Anderson was looking tense.

Donovan approaches him, as if he's some kind of easily startled animal.

"Look, I'm sorry about John," She said, and Sherlock snorted derisively. "I understand he's your friend." Sherlock shot her a look. "But he's the kind of criminal you'd usually be chasing after, not protecting."

"He didn't do it, you idiot." Sherlock snapped. He was frustrated - even Sally wasn't usually this blindly incompetent.

"I understand, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped pacing to loom above her. "You don't understand a thing. John wouldn't hurt anyone, least of all his sister."

"He's killed before."

"He was in the army!"

"I wonder why." Sally said drily. She was rapidly losing sympathy with the furious figure before her, because couldn't he see? His flatmate was a sick man, a disturbed individual. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, was blind to the flaws of the man living under his roof. She would've gloated if she hadn't been sure that Sherlock would quite happily resort to violence.

"He was an army medic who joined to serve his country and help save lies. What part of that screams capable of murder against his own family?"

"You can't always predict these things, Sherlock."

" _I_ can."

Sally almost rolled her eyes. Almost. "You can't deny the evidence is there."

"The only evidence you have is inadmissable in court. I suggest you start finding the real culprit rather than pinning it on John. _He wouldn't hurt his sister._ "

"You really don't think he's capable of it, do you? After everything?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He's - he's just John. He never kills without just cause."

Sally almost smiled. "I don't think you should say that at the trial."

"There won't be a trial. I'll find out who before it comes to that."

"You should talk to Harry."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, immediately suspicious. Sally hadn't called him freak once this entire conversation - admittedly, that was mostly out of pity, but now she seemed to be offering help.

"I will."

Sally chewed her lip. "Lestrade's talking to John's therapist, tomorrow. If he doesn't get the confession he needs out of John this evening."

"John hasn't spoken to a lawyer." Realisation dawned on Sherlock. "He's an idiot. He'll do something fundamentally stupid like confess. Or not deny it."

"Why would he do that if he didn't do it?"

"Lestrade's interference has only compounded the belief that he shouldn't be allowed out - that he should be locked up." Sherlock scowled. 

"He's going to confess to something he didn't do because he thinks he could've done it?"

"Yes."

"He's an idiot."

Sherlock looked at her sharply - he was the only one allowed to call John an idiot. But given the circumstances - and the fact that it was true - he conceded.

"Can you supervise the questioning?" He asked. He would never normally have trusted Donovan with something so serious as _stopping John from doing something stupid_ (a role which was rarely required, but when it was required utmost skill and delicacy), but this was a previously unforeseen scenario (as in, he couldn't imagine Lestrade ever being that narrowminded - he'd actually considered him an almost competent policeman up until now), and so sacrifices must be made by all. 

Sally nodded.

"I'm sorry about before." Sally spat out, before she could stop herself.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"At the flat, I mean."

"It was understandable, at the time. Most people would. It is Lestrade's vendetta that is intolerable."

"Did you?"

" _Freak out?_ No. I was intrigued - it was a scientific study." 

Sally snorted. That was the Sherlock she was used to.

"I was flattered, too." Sherlock paused, waiting for the words to have the desired effect.

"Freak." Sally said, but it was (mostly) in good humour.

"He told me how he'd kill me. To my face. It was _fascinating._ "

Sally shivered. She couldn't help it. "I won't mention that in court, shall I?"

"It won't get to court." Sherlock sounded confident, but Sally couldn't help but notice the anxious edge to his voice. This was not a Sherlock she was used to - and she wanted him to go back to being the irritable genius with no time for platitudes.

Any day now.

"I should talk to John." She said, backing away.

Sherlock nodded and turned to leave, his coat swinging out behind him as he pushed the swinging doors of Scotland yard.

 _Always has to make a dramatic exit,_ Sally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, slightly shorter than I'd hoped (and less plotty) but I wanted to paint some of the characters in a slightly more sympathetic light (sorry Lestrade, none of that for you.) Also, apologies if Sherlock is slightly OOC. I haven't quite got around him having feelings in my head. This _almost_ turned shippy, but I can't write smut for shit, so gen all the way!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interview with Harry Watson.

Harry blinked, glancing around the room. The walls were white, and bare, and there was a control for the bed position just out of arms reach.

Ah, hospital then.

"What do you remember, Harry?"

Who was the lanky git?

She raised an eyebrow at his question, before recognising him from John's description on the blog. 

"The infamous Sherlock Holmes, I take it." She said, drily. Now that she thought about it, she did feel a little - fuzzy - around the edges, and she couldn't think of a single thing she'd done recently to wind up in a hospital bed. She hadn't even been drinking for a month now.

He nodded. "You were attacked. You don't remember a thing, do you?" Sherlock scowled. This was a dead end. He needed Harry, he needed something to go on. Lestrade wouldn't even tell him where she was found - how could you solve a crime without a crime scene or any of the details, bar one (wholly innocent) suspect?

"I was at a... coffee shop," Harry hazarded. She'd been meeting up with - what was her name? - Nadia. For a coffee date. There'd been talk of proper _drink_ drinks, but Harry had explained and Nadia had understood and so they'd arranged for dinner. That was what happened. The more Harry thought about it, the more certain she was.

"Which one?" Sherlock was frustrated. Harry may have been doped up on morphine and with absolutely no idea what happened to her (and he'd glanced at her chart - concussion, too), but this was important.

"Where's John?"

Suddenly uncomfortable, Sherlock shifted his weight. "He's... not available, at the moment. He's concerned for your welfare. I will let him know you're awake at the earliest opportunity."

Harry looked suspicious. "You're not going to text him? You're always texting him."

"He's not available." Sherlock said flatly. "Which coffee shop?"

"It was in Camden. I was meeting a -"

Sherlock cut her off. "A girl, yes, I know, I couldn't care less, do you remember leaving the coffee shop?"

Harry thought for a minute. Sherlock found her silence utterly infuriating.

"I walked through the market. Took a while though, it's always crowded on a Saturday. I stopped to talk to the man with all the leather books and then I saw someone I knew and then..." she trailed off, but Sherlock could tell she'd remembered. 

It would be hard to describe the look on Harry's face as a look of horror, but there was a certain amount of trepidation in it, and when she asked her question, her voice shook. "What's the scarring going to be like?" 

Sherlock assessed her. "Bad." He said, flatly. 

She flinched. "Where's John?" Because there had never been a time when she'd needed her brother more.

"The idiots at Scotland Yard believe him to be a suspect. He's being questioned." Sherlock couldn't keep the exasperation out of his voice. 

Harry wanted to hold back but she found the whole idea quite ridiculous - she chuckled. "John, hurt me? Have they met him?"

"There have been concerns raised over his mental health." Said Sherlock, coldly.

"He's my _brother._ That can't be their only evidence."

"There is a member of Scotland Yard who has issues with John. The investigation will be biased against him. The only witness they have is you."

"It wasn't John."

"And you are absolutely sure of that?" Sherlock couldn't afford to take any chances with an unreliable witness - particularly one who could be misconstrued as biased or worse, _conditioned._

"John wouldn't hurt me. And I'd - I'd remember him, I'm sure of it." Harry found the whole idea quite disturbing - John wouldn't hurt anyone - not his sister. He'd spent so long trying to stop her hurting herself, he wasn't stupid, or bloody minded, nor did he have an agenda. John _loved_ her. And with John, that was a kind of a for-the-rest-of-our-lives thing. (Which is why Harry had furiously seen off more than one ex-girlfriend who'd dared to break his heart).

"What do you remember?" Sherlock's voice was tight, and somehow, sharp. Harry wasn't surprised - she'd heard about this weird relationship her brother and his flatmate had, the utterly platonic devotion (she understood it, even if she couldn't resist making a few innuendos).

"I left the coffee shop and walked through Camden Market. I was looking at the menu for a nice italian place, to plan the next date, when someone bumped me on the shoulder." Harry frowned. "I don't remember her face, but I know she was... well, I knew she was a she. She acted like she knew me but I don't think I knew her. She asked if I wanted a ride home and..."

Harry paused, looking off into the distance. Sherlock's fist clenched - he'd dealt with Harry's kind of witness before and his default response was to insult her and accuse her of making it up until she got to the point, but this was John's sister, so he'd have to wait until she got to the point. 

"I said no. I said I wanted to walk, get some fresh air. And then we parted ways, I think. I was.. uncomfortable. And then she ran after me, claiming I'd stolen her wallet - loudly, too - and I was dragged off. There was an injection, I think. An alleyway. Dark bricks, near the italian place. You can do something with that, right?"

Sherlock nodded. A dozen theories running through his head.

"Hair colour?"

"Blonde."

"Eyes?"

"Don't remember."

"Clothes?"

"Jeans and a shirt with too much cleave."

Sherlock nodded. That would do. Now he had to find the alleyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, Sherlock is still OOC, but we have plot, and things!  
> I've decided not to involve Moriarty in this - I think that would make it too much about Sherlock, and it's about John, and dealing with John's issues (well this chapter isn't, but you get the gist of it)  
> I'd also like to say a maaaaaahoooosive thank you to all of the fantastic comments I'm getting. It's really, really great to know what you guys think of the plot, and my writing, good and bad.  
> Um. I also think I should point out that I know absolutely nothing about anything remotely medical, aside from that one time I got concussion. Yeah. Ignore any inaccuracies, please.   
> (Updates will probably be slowing down a bit from this point forwards. Exams start next week and they're kind of important, so... xD)


	9. Chapter 9

When Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street, he was dismayed. A suitcase was missing, a note stuck to the violin.

_Staying with Mike. Don't need an alibi. Go back to cases with Lestrade._

Sherlock's stomach dropped. Well, this was completely unacceptable. He has always, will always, prefer to text, but this was an exception. 

"John?"

"Sherlock! It's midnight." John's voice, through the tinny speaker, sounded exhausted. Ah. Sherlock should have paid more attention. 

"You've moved out?"

"It doesn't matter, the trial is next week."

"You said you didn't need an alibi. You're planning on pleading guilty."

"Lestrade said it himself. I'm not safe out on the streets."

"You're an idiot."

"I feel reassured. Thanks! I won't go to my trial, I will conjure up evidence and everything will be fine!"

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"Condescending suits you well." 

"John."

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"Have you done _it,_ again?"

There was a sigh, and a hesitation. "It's not really any of your business, Sherlock."

"Have you told your therapist?"

"Don't even think about interfering."

"John! Listen to yourself! You're a doctor, you _know_ what is and isn't normal in these cases and you need to stop telling yourself you're a danger to people at large."

"My sister, Sherlock."

"You didn't do it. I was with you the whole time."

"There are some things I don't remember, Sherlock." And John sounded so tired, as if this confession was draining the energy from him, word by word. "There's just patches. The time frame fits. I could've done it."

"I spoke to Harry, she said it was a woman."

John sighed, the sound bitter. "Don't get involved. It's better if I'm locked away where I can't hurt anybody."

"You've killed for me before."

"I appreciate the reminder of what a dangerous human being I am."

"You don't kill for no reason at all." Sherlock pointed out, because at this point being helpful is all he can offer.

There was silence on the line, the buzz of static the only thing signalling John hasn't hung up. 

"John. Come back to Baker Street."

"You won't cope without crimes. I won't cope with you not coping. It's _fine._ It's practically better this way."

"Yes, you sound thrilled."

"I'm not coming back."

"Why not?"

"I will never be able to look Lestrade in the eye again. We sat in that bloody room for hours, going over where I've been and talking about my motives and christ, he read snippets from that damned book to me."

Sherlock was silent. John could practically hear him thinking. "You know that evidence is inadmissable in court."

"Funny, Lestrade didn't mention that." John tried hard not to let optimism seep into his voice, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't a masochist, he didn't want to be in prison. He didn't think he was particularly safe _outside_ of prison, but still.

"It was seized without a warrant. That makes things complicated. It's involved with therapy, as well - invites confidentiality issues, especially because you're ex-army. Did you confess to anything?"

"N-no." But John was uncertain. He'd confessed to not knowing where he was 100% of the time. But he wouldn't hurt Harry. That was important, right?

"I will be your alibi. Come back to Baker Street."

"Tomorrow, Sherlock."

John hung up. The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, and he resumed connecting the dots that Harry had started to form. He wondered what Lestrade would find at the therapist - if he'd even tried to link for other suspects. 

Sherlock, once, had respect for Lestrade. He was a good detective - tolerant, helpful, occasionally even insightful. Sherlock had been surprised (undeniably, it took a lot to surprise Sherlock Holmes) by his sheer bloody mindedness regarding this particular issue with John, but Sherlock knew when to press matters. And he'd already been on the phone to John's therapist. Hopefully she would be able to put Lestrade straight.

And at some point, somebody was going to need to stop John from self destructing. Sherlock, though he'd never admit it, was terrified that was going to land in his lap. What use was he in a crisis? He could shoot at the bad guy and say something clever but he couldn't talk someone out of hurting themselves, couldn't make someone believe they were better than they thought they were. A child, maybe - certainly not a grown man. And any attempt at acting, at playing the part of the comforting friend, and John would _know_ and that was the worst part.

Sherlock had the power to make John so much _worse_ and he was terrified he was accidentally going to dip into that well and screw everything up. And the thought of John in prison was pretty bad, but at least he would still be alive, and functioning, and in a way, protected from himself.

No wonder John had left, for the time being. What could Sherlock offer him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. John has a breakdown. Sherlock has a breakdown because HOW DOES HE DEAL WITH JOHN HAVING A BREAKDOWN.  
> And christ everybody is essentially a teenage girl, but they think about sex a lot less.  
> Um. In terms of the memory being patchy thing I would like to point out I know absolutely /nothing/ about mental health, aside from what little personal experience and research I can draw on. Even so, take everything with a pinch of salt because I am using a lot of artistic license.  
> (I got this idea from Ben Elton's Dead Famous - because SPOILER ALERT one of the characters isn't entirely convinced she didn't do it because sometimes she gets stuck in her head and she can't remember what she does - it's linked to a genetic history of mental health problems she has and so it may be quite a tenuous link to PTSD, it almost works)  
> I apologise for any OOC-ness and also the tenses went a bit weird in this chapter, because I've been writing non-fanfiction things in present tense lately.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock paced. This was _difficult._

Somehow, he needed to get through to Lestrade - he'd managed to convince Donovan with little effort, but Lestrade was being unusually difficult. Sherlock, though he loathed to admit it, didn't understand Lestrade's reaction. It had been impossibly strong, disturbingly so. 

It didn't change the fact that John was his friend, and a good person, and, okay, he had killed people before, but he was a doctor, he was innately kind. Of course, he had flaws - his intelligence was sadly lacking and he had a tendency to seek out normalities (Sherlock was still bitter about John's determination to flirt with every woman of a suitable age that they came across) - but so did everyone. He was not capable of murder. He only killed people when he felt there was just cause, and while he may not have been in his right mind recently, there was no way he would transfer that into having a good reason to seriously injure his sister.

Lestrade was an idiot. All Sherlock had to do was conclusively prove it. 

Sherlock quietly climbed the stairs to John's room. He'd been quiet for a while now (Sherlock thought it was about 4am, but it was hard to be sure when he was thinking) and Sherlock needed to make sure he wasn't doing anything insufferably stupid.

Sherlock frowned. He was showing concern for a human being besides himself, openly, without considering the possible risks beforehand. This had been going on for weeks now. How had he not noticed before?

Sherlock glanced through the crack in the door. John was muttering in his sleep, and Sherlock was fascinated - a chance to watch John having a nightmare? But perhaps he should wake him up. That would be the sort of thing a kind and supportive friend would do, wouldn't it?

Sherlock entered the room, still uncertain. 

It took about two seconds for John to pin him against the wall.

"John-" 

Sherlock gasped. Being held by the throat was not particularly conducive for talking, but he tried regardless.

"It's me, it's Sherlock, John-"

Sherlock began to wheeze, and something in John's eyes flickered. John took two steps back.

"Christ, Sherlock, I'm sorry." He wouldn't look him in the eye.

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his throat with his hand. "It's fine, should've known better than-"

"Christ." John sat down on the bed, rubbing his hands together. 

"It's not your fault." Sherlock said, quietly. He'd gone and made the whole damn thing worse, hadn't he?

John nodded. "What did you want?"

"What?"

"You came into my room for a reason, what did you want?"

"Oh." Sherlock was quiet for a moment, thinking. "I just came to make sure you were okay."

John snorted, quietly. "You don't have to lie. I don't mind that you were probably only here to borrow my laptop."

"I'm not - lying." Sherlock was honestly affronted. Did John really think so little of him? "I was going to wake you because I thought you were having a nightmare."

"I was." 

They sat in silence in the dark of John's room for a while before John thinks to flick on the lamp. As he blinked in the bright light, Sherlock could see that John was shaking.

"Are you alright?" He asked. He wondered if the compulsion to ask that came with caring about someone, because it had been surprisingly automatic.

"Adrenaline." John muttered morosely. "You?"

"Fine, fine."

Sherlock attempted a half smile and failed, miserably.

"Can you.. go?" John said, and Sherlock nodded, pushing himself up from the wall.

John wanted privacy, that was fine, he was unlikely to do anything stupid, Sherlock tried to assure himself. He probably just wants to sleep.

Sherlock went downstairs, taking care to make just enough noise for John to be sure he was gone. He pondered picking up the violin, but just in case John really was going to sleep, he decided against it.

His phone is flashing. It wasn't when he went upstairs. He glances at the screen, surprised.

_Had a meeting with Ella Thompson earlier. Can you come to NSY in the morning? Don't bring John. -GL_

Sherlock frowned. He wanted to ignore Lestrade's request - it would serve him right, but the tone of the text (it was always difficult to deduce things by text) almost suggested contrition.

And _that_ was an opportunity he could not pass up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Thispe's wonderful link to some information about PTSD, this chapter almost wrote itself.
> 
> In case it's not obvious, we're nearing the conclusion of this fic. Probably two/three more chapters and an epilogue, at a guess. (one of the chapters may be painfully angsty. Um. Sorry.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade finally sees sense.

Lestrade passed Sherlock a mug of coffee as he walked in. Sherlock had been sitting there for god knows how long, and at the sight of Lestrade he abruptly stopped drumming his fingers on the desk.

"You're in my seat." Lestrade frowned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood. "I assume you've something important to tell me. Or are you going to warn me away from John?"

"I spoke to Ella Thompson. And to Harry Watson."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"John's no longer a suspect." Lestrade said, looking at the file. "And I need you to find out who the actual attacker was, because I can't make head or tail of it."

"You're looking for a woman between 25 and 30 with a history of minor crimes. Blonde, lives near Camden Market."

"If you're just making that up because of John, I'll -"

"I spoke to Harry too."

Lestrade, apparently satisfied, nodded. 

"Is John allowed to work with me on this one?" Sherlock asked coolly.

Lestrade paused. "Well - he is linked with the victim. It might be - uncomfortable - for him."

Sherlock allowed, momentarily, a cat like smile to cross his face. "So, was it Ella or Harry that convinced you he's not insane?"

Lestrade almost looked anxious. "Ella Thompson. His therapist advised me on some of the trickier aspects of PTSD."

"Oh?"

Lestrade fixed him with a flat stare. "If I'm going to apologise to anyone, it's going to be John. You don't get to hear any of it."

"You're going to apologise?"

"I may have misunderstood. I did misunderstand, in fact. I'm not okay with the fact that he thought about killing me, but it was an involuntary reaction to trauma he'd been through."

Sherlock grinned. "That sounds verbatim."

"It is." Lestrade had the sense to look suitably cowed. "I don't... understand, a lot of it. I thought the PTSD was just a flimsy excuse, because why would being in the army make him want to kill the people he surrounded himself with after he came back?"

"He doesn't want to kill you. He just... thinks about it, a lot. I didn't ask him to explain why."

"Really?"

"John's bad at explanations. And he seemed uncomfortable enough with the idea that anyone knew, anyway."

"God. You don't think I," Lestrade paused, as if afraid of what might come out of his mouth. "You don't think I made him worse, do you?"

"Your interaction with him definitely made him worse." 

"When you say worse -"

"No, I will not go into details." The _you idiot_ went unsaid, but Lestrade got the gist of it anyway.

"I didn't mean for that."

Sherlock snorted. "You set out to ostrasize him."

Lestrade winced. "He described my murder, Sherlock, I can't just ignore that."

"You didn't have to hold him up for ridicule, accuse him of attempting to kill his own sister - which, by the way, he was devastated by - and try to separate him from me."

"The facts all added up at the time. It made sense."

"You were jumping to conclusions because you were _scared_ of someone who had previously been your friend." 

"I said I was going to apologise!" 

"Good." Sherlock sniffed, then turned to leave. 

"I thought I would do it now." Lestrade said, quietly. "Is he at home?"

"Yes."

"Share a cab?"

Sherlock paused a moment, before responding. Lestrade did seem genuinely remorseful, even if he still didn't quite understand.

"Sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. I'm frustrated that Lestrade has taken such a rapid u-turn, but I think this is about as tentatively okay as he's going to get. And I don't think him and Sherlock could have this conversation without a bit of confrontation, but still.  
> I'm having writerly issues with this one. Um. Please let me know if you have any suggestions for improvements on this one because uuuurgh.  
> /anyway/  
> The next chapter is going to be both phenomenally angsty and medically inaccurate, and because I have an exam in the morning and on friday, will probably not be up until the weekend.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE ATTEMPT

It took less than a second after Sherlock walked through the door for him to decide exactly whose fault this was. He shot a sharp glare at Lestrade as he took a step closer to John, who was pressing the barrel of his gun to his forehead.

"Jesus," uttered Lestrade. Sherlock glared at him again.

"I wrote you a note." John gestured with his empty hand. "You weren't supposed to be here."

"John, put the gun down." Lestrade tried. "You don't have to do this."

"It'll be safer if I'm not around."

"No, it won't. My efficiency in solving cases has increased by approximately 80% with you _around_ as you put it."

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned him. "That isn't exactly helpful."

"Well it's better than your approach. You put him here in the first place."

Lestrade decided to ignore Sherlock. "John, I came to apologise. You're not - you're a good man."

John snorted, derisively. "You weren't supposed to be here."

"John, when was the last time you killed anyone?" Sherlock said. 

John looked up at him, then glanced at Lestrade. "The cabbie."

Sherlock waves a hand at Lestrade to silence his surpise.

"And there was no tremor in your hand then, right? Because it was the _right thing to do._ "

"Right." John nodded, coming back into himself. He glanced at his hand. Shaking.

"So this is the wrong thing to do. You're not someone you're supposed to kill."

"Right."

John's hand went limp, and the gun slipped. His fingers caught the trigger as it fell, and John let out a startled cry as a bullet drove into his leg. 

Lestrade swore, and took his phone out to dial 999. _The important thing is not to panic,_ he reminded himself. John, too, seemed aware of this edict, as he pressed his hands to the hole in his shin.

"Sherlock." He gasped. "Need help - elevating." 

It took less than a minute for sirens to fill the flat (Mycroft's influence, Sherlock presumed), and John was carried away to the hospital, Lestrade and Sherlock following behind.

*

"This is your fault." Sherlock spat. Plastic hospital chairs did not agree with him.

Lestrade inclined his head. "I know." He sounded resigned. 

Sherlock paused, apparently thinking. "This is cause enough to fire Anderson, correct?"

"No, Sherlock."

"The combined efforts of the two of you drove a man to attempt suicide, Lestrade," reminded Sherlock.

"I don't care-" Lestrade winced as Sherlock shot him a sharp look. "That's not what I meant, of course I _care_ , I just don't think you should really be trying to change this to your advantage."

Sherlock sniffed. "It could be something positive to come out of it."

"Sherlock." Lestrade was irritated - this wasn't new, Sherlock noted. Lestrade had long carried an air of exasperation when he was around Sherlock. He imagined that elsewhere, Lestrade was light hearted, but he couldn't picture it. 

"Fine. But when John comes back, Anderson is going to be a problem."

Lestrade went quiet for a moment. "Will John come back?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, with an air of finality.

"Have you asked him?"

"He _will_ ," insisted Sherlock, but he sounded less convinced. 

Lestrade decided not to disagree.

"It's your fault if he doesn't." Sherlock pointed out.

Lestrade spoke through gritted teeth. "I know."

"Do you really think an apology is going to make it okay?"

"What exactly would, Sherlock? Because I'm supposed to be good at this and I don't have a clue."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Lestrade, evidently deciding not to speak.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

*

Twenty minutes later they were inside John's curtained off cubicle, with the warning that visiting hours would be over in an hour and John would need to be kept overnight. Lestrade had attempted his apology under Sherlock's stern glare.

John looked up at him earnestly. "I thought we were friends, Lestrade."

"We were - are. I was just," Lestrade floundered, "shocked. That's all."

John flinched. "I was convinced I was going to hurt someone. You convinced me."

"I know. And I'm sorry. We all are."

"Apart from Anderson." Sherlock chimed in, drily.

"Yes, what did Anderson say to you?" Lestrade asked.

John looked uncomfortable. "I don't want to talk about it."

Lestrade nodded, but suddenly Sherlock was looking at John sharply. John looked back at him steadily, unafraid.

Something unspoken passed between them, that Lestrade missed, and the tension in the room evaporated.

"Will John be allowed back on cases in future?" Sherlock asked, speaking for John - something John looked less than pleased with.

"Of course. Anderson will be disciplined, of course -"

"But not fired," muttered Sherlock sulkily.

"and we'll welcome you back." Lestrade finished.

"You'll have to wait for my leg to heal up." John said. "I'll be back on the cane again and useless to everybody." He sounded unusually morose - it was more starkly unlike John than the lunacy from earlier.

"Shouldn't take long," said Sherlock cheerily. "Bullet bounced off your shin bone - providing there's no infection, and you have an adequate physiotherapist, you'll be fine in only a few months."

"Only a few months." John repeated. "Great."

The sarcasm was not lost on Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not have written this without the help of one of my best friends, Data. He's not even into fanfiction and he talked me through two different versions of this until it was readable. He puts up with an awful lot from me.   
> Anyway normally I write a really long note here so this feels sort of inadequate. Uhm. Next chapter may not be until next weekend or after, because I have two exams on friday which I will be revising for and then it's eurovision on saturday night and the BAFTAs on sunday night and I do all my writing at 11pm, so that may interfere xD


	13. Epilogue

Meeting for coffee had been Lestrade's idea. John wasn't convinced, but he presumed it wasn't a social call. They were inside a non descript Starbucks, Lestrade sipping at something that sounded italian.

"How's the physio?" Lestrade asked, following a not very subtle glance at John's cane.

John shrugged. "It's alright. I got shot, it's going to take a while before I'm running after criminals again."

Lestrade suppressed a smile, then said, quietly: "And the therapy?"

John swallowed. "Better, actually."

"I owe you an apology. Several, in fact."

John smiled. "It's fine. I get why you reacted the way you did, even if Sherlock doesn't."

"Sherlock doesn't get it?"

"He assumed you'd make the connection to PTSD and head straight to pity, skipping over fear and disgust."

"Oh." Lestrade looked.. embarrassed, mostly. "We caught the woman who attacked your sister, by the way."

"Harry said. Who was it?"

"Know a woman named Clara?"

"Clara wouldn't - she wouldn't do that."

"Her new girlfriend would, apparently."

"Jesus. Shit. How'd Clara take it?"

"Badly. She doesn't have much luck with women, does she?" Lestrade smirked.

John started to giggle. "Christ. What a mess."

"I really am sorry, John. For your sister, and then.. well, you know."

"It's fine." John smiled, his eyes looking a little brighter than they had in a while.

"Come back to cases soon?"

"Eventually." John shrugged. "I'll have to train a bit. Morning runs, and all that."

"I'll join you. God knows I need the exercise."

They both laughed.

It was almost like before. In a way, it was better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Whew. That's over. That's it.   
> Um.  
> Thanks for sticking with me for 13 chapters, this marks the end of my first complete multi chapter fic.   
> Even if I later decide to continue in this 'verse. Unlikely, but I still have ideas floating in the back of my mind.
> 
> So, yes. Thank you for reading and things, it has been wonderful reading all of your comments and getting feedback and basically you're all wonderful. Um. You'd think I'd be more eloquent in this bit.   
> (Sorry, I'm rambling a bit)


End file.
